In Perfect Time
by writinginthesky
Summary: In music, poetry, and life, timing is everything. Silence is half a song. And it's in these pauses that we realize the beauty of sound.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

It started, embarrassingly enough, in high school.

Bella was just an average girl.

She was the most unique girl in the world.

It all depends on who you ask.

She had average brown hair. But it was so dark it was almost black when she was outside at midnight or after she had just stumbled out of the shower – spiraling thickly around her shoulders and brushing against her long, graceful spine, finally stopping just short of her waist – and warm red in the sun. It crackled with electricity during summer and inflated in any humidity – which was an unbelievably hellish curse because living in Forks, Washington meant that humidity was constant.

She had average brown eyes. But that's only what it said on her driver's license. Her eyes were an unclassifiable color between yellowish-orange in sunlight and hazel in the dark. They were only truly brown after she'd been crying. They were never red-rimmed or bloodshot. Just brown.

She was an average 5'4". But she was never estimated to be that height. She had always refused to wear flat shoes and with her long proportions, many suspected she was taller. Yet she hunched her shoulders when she walked, always staring down at the ground, so she was just as often assumed to be short.

She worked at a neighborhood fast food restaurant. It was blatantly ordinary. And boring. She came home exhausted every night at ten, smelling of grease just like any other teenager.

She was very uncoordinated. The type of uncoordinated that pretty much guarantees you the last possible spot on any team sport. The type that ensures you drop your books and trip over your feet and fall out of chairs. But of course, it would be far too easy for Bella Swan to be simply and utterly uncoordinated. No. In fact, she could dance like an angel and sometimes even the way she fell was graceful – like falling stars or snow or leaves. She didn't know it, but every time she stumbled, she bit her lip. That subtle act was seductive enough to prevent all of the boys in school from breaking her fall. They were too star struck.

Her father was Charlie Swan, the police chief. He was an ordinary man, a structured man. Every morning, he ate breakfast at the diner at 7:34 sharp. He ordered the same thing every day. Lunch and dinner were the same way – almost ceremonious in their never-ending, rigid sameness. Every morning, every afternoon, and every evening, he ate and stared at the wall. Cut, chew, swallow. Cut, chew, swallow. He thought about his wife then, and the man he had been with her. It was the only time he allowed himself to reflect on the spontaneity that had once given him an ura of life and of progress. He had proposed a mere hour into their first date. Because Renee had been it. The one. And he had known once he heard her voice for the first time. Now, every time he heard Bella's melodic soprano, he remembered. He never let it show on his face then, he hid the sadness in his eyes, the age in the lines of his mouth when he was near her. It was a strain, but he'd never complain. It was only here, only in the diner that he let it show. Cancer. It takes from us only the most important thing – life. It leaves behind the memories. The shadows. And Charlie was afraid of his own. Every day. Cut, chew, swallow. Swallow the life he had thought he would have. Swallow the ambitious hope that had once made his smile so bright. And open his mouth for another dream. Every day.

It was her senior year. She was voraciously applying to colleges in New York City, knowing her grades were her only ticket out of small town anonymity.

That's when it happened. She was handing out fliers for the drama club, the debate team, and the choir all at once at the freshman extracurricular fair the first week of school. Cue the bad chick flick slow-mo scene. Her red-tinted hair was blown into her face by a meddling breeze and one of the fliers flew from her juggling grasp. She sighed and pushed it out of her face with one hand while grabbing the wayward handout from the feet of a boy. But it wasn't just any boy. It was Edward Cullen. And the only thing she could think as he smiled at her crookedly, his blue eyes hurtling through her orangish ones and clawing through her heart, was "oh shit."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Edward Cullen.

No one had ever called him ordinary or average.

No one would dare.

He had messy reddish-brown hair, frequently mussed by long, moon-white fingers. It stood in peaks and spikes, lay wavy and appealing across his forehead. It seemed alive, constantly moving like down feathers. It shone like bronze in the sun, the exact shade shifting continuously until no one knew what color it actually was. Even his freaking hair was a miracle.

He had the eyes of an angel – oh so peaceful and serene. They were precisely, intensely blue – so much so that the color blue almost didn't exist to a person until those eyes were viewed for the first time. They were shaped strangely, almost trapezoidally, in a way that made them seem exotic and sad and miles deep.

He was a strange height – tall for his age, but not generally tall – not yet. It was impossible to pinpoint his height and when anyone asked him what it was, he'd shake his head and narrow his eyes and say "a true gentleman never reveals his height" in his bass voice. Then he'd laugh and everyone around him forgot what the question was as he revealed his startlingly white teeth – teeth that made his unbelievably pale skin look bluish in contrast.

He worked at his mothers' music store, playing the Kawai baby grand piano in the window. He'd sit, ruffling his already-crazy hair absently and moving sheet music – with his poetic scrawl sprawled over the staff – across the polished black sheen. He'd sing too, words of his own making that meant nothing and everything at the same time

He had the grace of someone who floated endlessly through life. He played the civilized sports, things like tennis and cross country running, but stayed as close to under the radar in them as anyone with his looks and talent could. But girls still came to his meets just to watch his long, pale arms push the air to either side as he ran or the way he grimaced as his racket connected. Strangely, for all his grace, he couldn't dance, just move his limbs awkwardly from side to side while he smiled apologetically at those who had to be seen with him. Fortunately, the way the light flashed off of his skin – covered with a light sheen of sweat – at school dances was almost a dance in itself.

His father was the most prominent doctor at the hospital in Forks. He was attractive and soothing and soon the giggling gaggles of girls in the small town were calling him things like Doctor Love. He was the tennis coach and a family man. A leader of his church. And herein lay the problem with the Cullens. Carlisle and Esme, Alice, Rosalie, and even Edward. They were Mormon. Strictly. They couldn't drink coffee or read certain books. And they certainly could not date girls outside of their religion. Especially before they were of marrying age. And all of them were completely secure in their stifling religion. The family was close and kept each other from straying from the "flock" or considering the strange or unnecessary tenets of their church.

So when Edward's eyes looked into Bella Swan's, when he felt a tug on his heart and a pressure in his throat, he knew he was in trouble. He was questioning something he had known his entire life to be right for a person he didn't even know. Her eyes turned lighter as he watched them in that interminable second. The orange and gold colors were all warmth to his cool blue paleness. She was melting him in a vat full of everything he was certain of. And he was smiling despite the pain. He hadn't known how cold he was until she set him on fire.

He didn't know this, but when Bella met his eyes – murmuring obscenities in some back corner of her mind – she watched his eyes change from the tranquil, peaceful blue they usually were (the very color of heaven) to a blue fire. They darkened – still bright, still dancing with his smile – but full of self-mockery and a little bit of danger. Just like that, they sucked her in. And in that mix of heaven and hellfire, she found the truth. She was efficiently, effortlessly attached to the one person in this school that was unattainable and forbidden in so many ways. She would burn for this.

Edward slowly bent to her level to help her gather the fliers – as if she were going to run away.

"Where do I sign up?" he asked cautiously, eyes still smoldering.

"For which one?"

"Umm…" he looked at the fliers in his hands for the first time, "the musical and choir."

She handed him a few clip boards and smiled at him, walking to the debate team table.

She didn't hear Edward groan and then mumble to himself, "Who knew the devil would actually get me to sign over my soul with a clip board and a smile?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It should have been easy. He was one young boy, she was one young girl. They both felt that undeniable twisting and turning in their stomachs that signified young love. It could have been perfect – could have been beautiful.

But it felt like hell.

Because every time they looked at each other, they had to turn away. Back towards their friends, their teachers. Back to their parents. Back to their churches.

They turned more and more wistfully. They had an unspoken agreement to look over their shoulders. For the first time in their lives, they were rebelling. And not in thought or voice – for that would have been revocable, temporary. But betrayal of the heart and soul – that betrayal one cannot wish to take back. Their betrayal was therefore permanent, gouged into the contours of their bodies.

They were guilty.

They didn't wish to be innocent.

They never spoke, just shared burning looks that left them both breathless and warm all over – not in the way of a love affair, mind you, but in the gut clenching worry of a secret too terrifying to speak aloud. She sat behind him in chorus and sometimes would send one quivering finger down the length of his side as she walked by. He'd shiver and look over his broad shoulder, seeking out her face as one seeks out the sun for an endless second.

Before long, he was the reason she went to school. She felt dizzy when he wasn't there – even more so than she did normally when he looked at her. When he was nearby, she was his moon. She orbited him, always conscious of exactly where he was. It scared her that, for the first time since her mother had died, she was bargaining with God. Her life and his life were already inexplicably intertwined. It was a two-sided obsession, a double-edged sword. And it felt as though it could legitimately kill her.

He was the more rational one – care bred into him by his ridiculously plastic toys of parents. He couldn't deny he knew where she was at all times – that every time she smiled or laughed at another boy, his fists would clench and he would feel a very primal anger. He'd never earned a smile from her lips. Genuinely charged looks from her almond-shaped eyes, yes. Blushes from her creamy skin, yes. But never the rich, full sound of her laugh. And he envied like his parents had always told him not to. But he was breaking all their rules now. She had changed him, so very quickly. Once upon a time, he had thought that his parents were gods in their own right, his father with his goodness, his mother with her love. Now nothing they said matched the way she looked at him. Now even their positive qualities seemed like cloaks, just layers hiding their true natures. With their rules carved into the layers of his skin, he would never be good enough for her. Their paths weren't supposed to be convergent. But he'd be lying if he said that he didn't fight fate with every one of his heartbeats. He'd be lying if he said that all of the times he sat in his bedroom – studiously avoiding his parents – all those times weren't because of that laugh.

It grew so that before long, chorus wasn't enough. One day, Edward of the blue eyes and vintage leather jacket sat down at her lunch table. She didn't breathe correctly the entire period. But the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners when he looked at her made him seem less brooding and more deliriously happy. So it was worth it. Later, when Mike Newton asked her "What Cullen was doing there," Jessica said "He has a soft spot a mile wide for Bella. Haven't you noticed?"

Bella blushed and ducked out of the questions that day. But when she went home and read Wuthering Heights that night, she cried with joy when Heathcliff came home. And it was enough for her then.


	4. Chapter 4

But there came a point when it wasn't enough. The shared looks, the gaping wounds they carved into their smiles weren't enough.

She could feel his laughter on the back of her neck whenever she smiled at another boy. He had captured her, possessed her with nothing more than the shape of his hands or the way he pronounced her name and smelled like gasoline and mint ice cream. His very being had taken over hers and she felt that she was trapped in his embrace, minus the embrace. It was primitive and scary and she was so very afraid sometimes. The way they knew each other without knowing each other… something was off.

He felt it too. He was used to constraints, but her gilded cage rendered him lost in a world of golden-orange eyes and secrets and he was afraid he would ruin her with his calculating blood, running just under his translucent skin. There was so much he saw, but he feared what lay beneath the pretense and false laughter. He was the only one who knew there was a pretense. Sometimes he sat for an hour or two in his room, just making shapes out of the light that had jumped from headlight to tree to his wall and he would think about the shallow filtered quality of everything in his life but her. She was not white bread or cookie cutter. She knew things. And he saw the pain in her eyes when she heard the word mother, saw her breath cut short as if the air was made of icicles and chill. He saw everything.

But he was not prepared, not prepared at all, when people started asking questions. They would catch him staring at her and ask why, as if he were looking at the blank-faced moon. And perhaps she was the moon, ever-changing and an enigma despite her never-ending candidness. He could read her face like ancient astronomers could read the sky. He knew what was happening, what was going to happen. He just didn't know why. And when people asked questions, he made an excuse or said he wasn't looking at her. This was high school. He was a freshman, she was a senior. He was a Mormon, an outcast by his own choosing. She could never, would never happen for him. He told himself it was a fantasy. And then, when anyone asked, he said it was hers – her fantasy, not his. And they would laugh at her, mock her. And she would look at him, her eyes plain old brown, hiding behind her curling hair and her books. She confronted him without saying a word. After all, he told himself, walking down Main Street and kicking pieces of decaying concrete to either side of him, the whole thing, this entire dream you've made yourself believe was without words, without definition. Why should heartbreak be any different? He laughed at his stupidity, smiling crookedly and shaking his head. Heartbreak is never audible. It is like snow falling quietly. Cold, very cold and as painful as frozen limbs sawed off at the joint.

When they asked her the same questions, she would blush, her blood – rosy and rushing to her cheeks joyfully – in marked contrast to his blue lips, blue veins. She'd smile and laugh, her eyes shining and people would shake their heads at her. "Really, Bella?" they'd ask, "A freshman?" She'd then proclaim that she couldn't help it, that she was in over her head, that it was out of her control, that she was free-falling every time he looked at her. He was different from anyone she'd ever met, she told them. They'd tell her about his family, his friends. They'd update her whenever they saw him. And before long, the rumor was that she was stalking him. She didn't mind, because the looks they exchanged were as loaded as ever. And when a person asked him if he wanted to go to the snow ball with her and he said "Who?" she knew that he was just keeping It a secret. Whatever It was.

And so it was that two teenagers, separated by age, by experience, by religion, by everything that should have kept them apart, dreamed of each other every night in the same way. In their dreams, they were separated only by the mere five miles between their homes. In their dreams, it was almost a possibility.


	5. Chapter 5

They both had their own respective potentialities for romance.

There were Mormon girls for whom Edward was a decided potential candidate for dating and eventually marriage. They had been raised to know that the Cullens were the most important Mormon family in the area and that it would be an honor to become a part of it. It didn't hurt that Edward was beautiful.

Bella was no stranger to awkward teenage boys, either. She was repeatedly asked out by her circle of male friends (she was never really into the girl eat girl world) but never went for it. It was much easier to cross off the days on her calendar until college started and take lots of cold showers. Much easier to push every bit of sensuality and hormones to the back of her head and think about what mattered.

What mattered was the sultry sway of the seasons, summer to fall to winter. Before she knew it, she was in the midst of preparing for the school musical and the number of days until she left for her undetermined fate was diminishing steadily. Bella didn't get the lead, her blushes and nervous breaks in her voice when she auditioned with a song she could sing in her shower like she could breathe in the meadow behind her house disqualifying her. Edward, however, sang like it was easier than breathing, like he couldn't do anything else. He was the first freshman lead the town had ever seen. Big surprise.

Rehearsals were fun, with the constant antics and music that accompanied the character of theater people. Edward found himself enjoying his time, letting loose and dancing awkwardly backstage, laughing and joking. He would catch Bella's eye every once in a while as if to confirm that they were both having fun. That this happiness and freedom was real. She'd blush and smile as if to affirm that she knew exactly what he meant, the focused girl doing the cancan to old *NSYNC songs. Sometimes, they would just stare at each other from across the stage until someone whistled or hooted. Then, the spell would be broken and they'd avert their eyes as if from the sun. These were the good times.

During chorus, 6th period every other day, Edward would sit in front of her, always with the delicious feeling of her eyes moving over the nape of his neck and down his spine. He began to wear tighter t-shirts and jeans, despite his parents' sighs of disapproval, just to feel her flame-colored eyes burning nearer to his skin. "If this is blasphemy or some other heinous sin," he would think, "then let me burn. I kind of like burning." He never imagined she could want anything more than the never-ending anticipation. Nothing more than the edge of reality. Then, one morning, a battered piece of paper fell out of his backpack after chorus. He knew it wasn't his; all of his things were put away neatly in impeccable folders. He smoothed it with his fingers and read.

"Darkness hangs from your rays of light

And forms a broken mosaic of dangling dreams

Glass couldn't reflect my pain any more clearly

And I keep coming back for more shards in my side.

We both know what you are – the sticks and stones that

Ruin me. The stream that carves away

Every stony defense I've ever built.

The reason for running.

We both know I'm the original adrenaline addict

I have to have to have to save you

From yourself, myself

And all the in-between conscious dreams.

And we both know that, despite my affection

My willpower, my picket-fence dreams

And even the way you look at me intense shades of across-the-room blue

I will always ever fail."

He gulped and looked around. He knew before he saw her that she had written it. The handwriting was her very essence: irregular letters splayed across the page in such a way that it looked like they had color almost – grey and lavender and purple and jade and the color of her eyes and the color of his eyes and the bland yellow of the school walls. Her writing was everything. He had heard about it of course. She had been published all over. Her poetry was so clear, so easy to understand. It was her. And his heart broke as he saw her pain in the lines. He had a strange idea that if he were to trace the curve of the letters with his tongue, he would taste blood.

Then he saw her and as their eyes connected, something snapped in him. He couldn't pretend anything anymore and he started towards the piano. Most of the people had left the room, but the remaining stragglers knew who he was playing for as he sat down and with determination began to run scales. Only Edward Cullen could make scales mean something. Bella's eyes filled with tears and she began to run out of the room. But he looked up and it was as if something – the music, the way he looked at her as if she was clawing through his skin to the veins visible just beneath – held her there. He switched to a melody that she had never heard before. It was angry and melancholy at the same time: shredded roses and the smell of pine sap. She was captivated as he added harmony after harmony. Finally the notes petered off and he was left staring at the keys. He stood up quickly then, startling Bella, who was stilled trapped by everything he was. Everything he was not. And like it had always been, he got to be the one to storm out. She was left by a piano she had never learned to play wondering when she would be able to see something other than him.


	6. Chapter 6

Bella ran to her room that night, pushing clothes off of her bed and crashing into it, a notebook and pen in her hand – ready to record the erratic beats of a breaking heart.

Her father knew what was happening, recognized his own state in her. He stood outside the door, listening to her sobs but not knowing what to say to help. That had always been Renee's job. After a full ten minutes, he left to stare at a picture of her instead, asking for guidance. Like always, there was no response.

As Bella wrote, her hands stopped shaking and she found she could breathe again. If she had been published nationally, if she was beginning a success story long before most, it was only because of the fire Edward had injected in her veins. She found herself burning holes in his clothes with her eyes obviously and consistently. Her singing voice had changed, developed an edge that was mostly melancholic, though at times angry. He was changing her. And Bella had promised herself no boy would ever change her. She hadn't realized it would be involuntary.

She avoided his stares in the hallway. He had become her – desperately wishing she would look at him so he could apologize with his eyes. He knew he was killing her. He was, after all, killing himself as well. He could recognize the pain in her eyes, but he could not ask her to look at him. That would be hypocrisy.

He couldn't feel her in chorus anymore, couldn't hear the beauty in her voice anymore. He watched her draw away from her friends, her well-meaning and angry friends. They didn't think he reciprocated her feelings. They had lost faith in her. In their opinion, college couldn't come soon enough. Separation, they kept remarking to each other when they thought she couldn't hear or he wasn't listening, would be the best thing for them.

He decided one morning, slipping a t-shirt over his head to the rhythms of the crows outside, to change things. She didn't look good and he was frantic. It had to end. So during lunch, he walked over to her table, shaking and jittery, replaying what he would say over and over. He stopped, like he had planned, asked if he could talk to her, like he had planned. But the plan stopped there.

Now that he was so close, looking into her strange scared eyes, he couldn't help but touch her. His hand settled on the small of her back. Her eyes widened and filled with something like hope. His heart broke. The air was suddenly thick with stares and laughter. Her cheeks flooded with blood and he could practically smell it. She bit her lip, avoiding his eyes and he couldn't stand it anymore. His hands acted of their own accord and he cupped her chin in his palm, using his thumb to gently tug it from her small teeth. Whistles flew through the cafeteria, but Edward and Bella couldn't hear them. They could only hear the gasoline in their veins igniting, see the purple haze on the insides of each others' eyelids. As he leaned in, Bella wondered why her dreams were getting so vivid.

Their lips met once, twice.

Suddenly, there was a yank on his sleeve and they broke apart, trying to desperately hold on to each other, nails scrabbling for purchase, leaving red marks on pale skin. Neither of them had ever been kissed before, but neither expected to feel this way again, like they were bigger than their bodies, like they were gods, free to change their own lives. When the insistent pulling got to be too much, Edward turned, still keeping an arm around Bella. It would be like an amputation to let go now. His sisters Rosalie and Alice stared back, absolutely infuriated.

"What are you doing?" Rosalie asked, "You know she's off limits!"

He shook his head and smiled. "I'm done with limits. I'm over restrictions. No more settling."

He walked back to her lunch table with her, sitting down next to her gaping friends and smiling at her, more blindingly happy than he had ever been. The rest of the day, they were absolutely inseparable.

Bella was in the most spectacular state of shock – floating from place to place, the life back in her eyes, the smile back on her face. She kept looking at him, hoping that he would still be there, surprised every time he was. He told her beautiful things, that he had kept copies of her poem in every place he could hide them from his family, that he had written the song he had played her in anger down on paper, added softening harmonies, and titled it Bella's Lullaby. He hummed it into her ear and that night, she replayed it in her dreams, sleeping as if she were on a cloud for a full night – for the first time in a month. It was like nothing could touch her, nothing would.

That day was the last time she would see him. The next day, he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

She walked through the doors, expecting to see his beautiful face grinning down at her. She waited by his locker looking confident for once, meeting the gazes of everyone passing by, all the insignificant jocks who wondered why she had captured him in her ordinariness. But she stood before them, transformed. If anyone would have asked Mike Newton or Tyler Crowley why Bella and Edward were together, they would have looked at him bemusedly and asked if he had looked at her lately. She was shining and everyone could see it – the way she smiled as if she had never frowned, her hips swaying as she moved confidently through the hallways. She had suddenly realized her worth, though it seemed as though, in typical high school girl fashion, it was worth defined by a boy.

She stood by his locker for almost an hour, until the final bell rang and she scurried to class. She looked the way she always had again, flushed and scared and awkward. She barely paid attention during class, taking notes like "Force= Mass times Edward" and "WHERE IS HE?" She felt stupid, clingy, and overemotional, but she knew something was horribly wrong, could feel it in her very bones like a colossal storm blowing into Forks. She realized suddenly that she didn't even have his phone number, a way to surreptitiously get in contact with him from under her desk. She walked into chorus sixth period, staring at his empty chair while everybody stared, in turn, at her. She could hear the absence of his dulcet bass voice within the choir and almost sobbed when his solo remained unsung. In the silence, she could almost imagine his voice, the way she soared with it. It hurt and, again, she wondered where he was. When she sang her own solo later in the rehearsal, gasps ran through the room. She sang it with the voice of someone who had attained something, only to have it taken away. She sang as someone who had loved and lost.

After school, she drove to his house, in hopes of a casual passing glance, just to check for any sign of problems. Her hands shook as she put the old truck in neutral to make sure that no one could hear the distinctive whine of the motor. As she slowly glided past the house, she gasped, slamming on the brake and bursting into tears.

There were no cars in the driveway, not the distinctive BMW M3 that Rosalie drove Alice and Edward to school in, not Esme's powder-blue minivan, and certainly not the silver Volvo Edward had been promised. There were no lights in the windows, or even curtains. It looked barren, deserted, like it had been empty for years. She put her truck into park absentmindedly and stumbled into their yard. It was still pristine, a sheet of slick white ice and snow, the driveway shoveled so perfectly it looked like it had been cut sharply by a straight blade. But there was no blood and all Bella could think was "there should be blood there should be blood" because someone or something had died and no one could see it, hear it but her and Edward, Edward the Clyde to her Bonnie because they had killed something and she wasn't entirely sure it wasn't her. She made sure to step across every inch of the yard that night, shivering alone in the dark and marring the smooth coldness. She was lost where he wasn't and she marveled at the fact that she knew nothing about him, not his favorite color or song or poem and certainly not his heart. She had been stupid, yet again. She had given fate and God and a beautiful boy the chance to wreak havoc on the small amount of apathetic contentment she had gained. That day, she threw her heart in the snow, buried it in the limestone, shale, and coal that was Forks, Washington. And when she walked away, the tear tracks on her face had evaporated, leaving pale, ordinary skin.

…

Everyone knew the next day when she walked into school with her eyes and mouth tied into straight lines. They knew that he wasn't coming back. What they didn't understand was Bella's apathy. Her shallow little friends looked at her, their faces dripping pity so strong it could have been sarcasm. Bella shook her head and forced a strained laugh at every facetious comment, pretending that it was a simple one-day kind of thing. But they had never really known her laugh without strain, she reflected later, that's why they couldn't see the panic in her eyes. She had only ever been as fake as they were – desperate for company and willing to be fake for it. Since the burial, she could not feel a thing, and it had begun to worry her. What kind of human being was she that she could find something so precious and beautiful and bury it in the stone and snow, crystals upon crystals, sharp and forever unappealing? She was beginning to wonder, with her stomach in a tight knot, if she had actually torn her heart out. She felt like a zombie, like she had become numb or like the materials she had buried her heart in – hard where she had always been soft and breakable. She couldn't feel enough to truly care.

The rest of the year passed calmly, without a single crack in her ice-and-stone. She smiled when someone aimed a camera at her face, laughed harshly when a joke was told. She spoke clearly and to great effect as the valedictorian in her class of 95 teenagers, making several of them cry. But she found herself staring at her diploma in annoyance. It did not represent the most important part of her year. It represented the falsity of her life: that she was this person on the inside – this person who could think and feel and love, but all anyone rewarded her for was her test scores and plain face. She was still pretending, always pretending, and no one ever noticed.

Never.

**End part one **


	8. Chapter 8

7 years later.

Bella had changed. She was no different.

Her life was **good**. She had met **good** people in college. She had had an amicable breakup with a **good** boyfriend a few **good** months ago. She went to church every Sunday. She tithed her income. She gave a few bucks to homeless people when she walked by. Anyone she knew would have described her as a **good** girl. She created **good **fiction and better poetry, which she handwrote and hid under a floorboard in her indie-chic apartment in the **good** part of the Village.

Everything was **good**. But nothing was great. And there lay the dilemma. Bella had always hoped to be destined for greatness. She had expected to have great friends, ones who gave her presents on her birthday, teased her, and knew every embarrassing story she could tell. Friends who would notice the ice-and-stone façade surrounding her still, the tremor in her voice whenever she spoke about Forks. She had expected to be in love, hopelessly and endlessly. And definitely requitedly. As time passed, she found herself becoming frantic. She was, it seemed, further from greatness than she had been in high school, when there was so much goddamned potential in every breath she took. She missed the possibilities. Her hope was reaching its limitations.

It was a typical Tuesday. She woke up late, stubbed her toes getting out of her pajamas and fell over her American Eskimo, Ivy. She still fell. A lot. And, not that anyone cared, but she still bit her lip every time and blushed as every male in the vicinity stared at her instead of helping her. She finally ran down the three flights of stairs and down the street to the nearest subway station, taking the 1 train uptown to 9th and 60th , where she stumbled the block to "Lyrical Beauty," a place where musicians ordered lyrics like they ordered Chinese takeout or Armani suits: casually and with very little purpose.

Ever since Edward, Bella had learned to despise musicians. They used beauty to ruin themselves. She had seen so many care so little about the artistry, and more about the cheap drugs and women that followed them around. Bella was extremely jaded about her work. She still loved to write, as shown by the floorboard that protruded slightly from the floor in her bedroom, the thousands of pages pushing through the cracks, hoping to find a way out, a way to be heard. She never tried to publish anything anymore, just wrote mechanical lyrics about "love," which she wasn't sure existed or should be sung about, anyway. Still, she was the most sought-after writer at the company and made a generous living.

As she burst through the doors, her assistant barely looked up, handing her a coffee and her schedule for the day. Bella burnt her tongue on the bitter office-coffee and sat down heavily at her desk, only to choke on the scalding mouthful as she looked at her schedule. Anthony Edwards was the first appointment of the day. It had to be a coincidence, but Bella's mind raced as she remembered how she had learned there was no such thing as coincidence that year in high school and how his middle name was Anthony and how he had looked when he told everyone he was going to be a musician, so bright and shining, young and enthusiastic, and how she had bragged in the same way that she would be a writer in New York City and how they had looked at each other with secret agreements in their eyes and she knew, she knew, she knew. She had been a smartass all her life, always the one to make a witty comeback or correct a teacher on the facts surrounding politics or literature or really anything, anything that she could. She had always set a great store in knowing things. She knew the square root of pi and the states of America in alphabetical order and the terminal velocity of an object in free fall. And she knew, looking at the orderly black letters on the creamy paper that the contrast between the two was reminding her of the contrast between blue and brownish-orange, heat and frost, in a way that could not, would not be coincidence.

She began to hastily grab her things, ready to take a sick day or a sick week or a sick life or anything, really anything, that would get her away from here. But then she saw her office door open and he stepped in and all she could do was sit back down and look at him, really look at him. He had grown to a few inches over six feet and become more angular, solid, fixed in time. There was a fine layer of stubble on his jaw and the light reflected off it in the same bronzish-brownish-goldish-reddish color she's always wondered about. His eyes, however, were the same. And as soon as she met them with hers, that familiar clash-crash rushing through her veins, she tried to pull her façade back over her skin, but it was ragged, torn by the way that he looked at her. Because that hadn't changed either and she was suddenly completely certain that she was going to vomit in her Bed, Bath, and Beyond trashcan. He was watching her. She began to wonder if he hadn't always been watching her in some way or another. Just before she fainted, she realized that he had come closer, that he was stroking her hair and her back and telling her that it would all be fine now, that he was here and that's all that mattered. She was too weak to push him away.


	9. Chapter 9

Bella woke up to the unfamiliarity of a familiar hand stroking her hair. She squeezed her eyes tighter together, hoping that the hand would stay, that she could stay forever in this world that consisted of the one day she had spent feeling happy and normal and beautiful. But she remembered suddenly, in a wave, Anthony Edwards and the look on his face, his voice in her ears, and his hands, those hands, touching her as if they had the right to. Her eyes flashed open and she backed away from him, flinching. She allowed the pain and fear and anger to fill her eyes and when she looked up at him, she knew they were just plain brown, that the ice façade that had fallen for a moment was coming back up. And a part of her clawed at the barrier between his blue and her orange, yearned for the freezer burn. But, as it had always been because of him, and when it came to him, it wasn't her choice. So she buried it under years of waiting, patted it on the head, and faced him.

Edward couldn't breathe. He watched her throw up and pass out and he still couldn't breathe. She hadn't changed much, there was no shock in that way, but it was like the seven years apart had been a constant struggle, like he was fighting a magnet every day. This was such a release, suddenly breathing was too easy and he couldn't do it. The excessive oxygen was making him dizzy. When he touched her, she fit into the palms of his hands perfectly, as if every ratio of the curve of her back and head were the ratios of his palms. It just felt right. Then her eyes fluttered open and they weren't the same. She flinched from his hands and they were empty once more.

He breathed her name in confusion "Bella," waiting for something, anything to tell him it would be all right to close the distance, to kiss her like he wished he would have kissed her when he was still an inexperienced kid. But this was not a Lifetime movie and her eyes were shut down, lifeless, as if she were begging him to stay the hell away from her. He couldn't. Wouldn't. And maybe even shouldn't. So he waited for her to say something.

Her voice came then, lower than he remembered it. "Get out." He couldn't wrap his mind around the words. Her lips mouthed the words, but he felt as if it were a bad voice over. The past seven years had been spent imagining what she would say, things as idealistic as "I love you as much as I did," as warm as "I missed you," even angry "Why did you leave me?" But he never expected the harshness in her tone, the way her eyes didn't even flash like they did when she was angry at school. He stood there, pathetically, waiting for the words to match up. Waiting for the world to make sense again.

"Who _are _you?" he finally murmured. Bella didn't know what to say, couldn't answer the beautiful boy that was now a beautiful man. She wanted to say silly things like "A robot," even "A shadow of the girl you left behind." She wanted to say something to make him laugh so that she could see the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and the warmth in his eyes and the way he smiled just a little crookedly. Hell, for a minute she wanted to say "just kidding" and kiss the life out of him. But instead, she just stared at him blankly, finally saying in the flat, low voice that didn't sound at all like her own, "What you made me." Then, she walked out of the door, telling her secretary (who had begun talking about how "fineeee that mansicle was," but quickly realized her mistake, looking up to see an angry, blushing Bella) she was sick. It wasn't far from the truth, and she felt as though she would vomit again when she realized she left her purse and coat in the office. She had a few dollars in her pocket and her key on a chain around her neck, though, so she decided to keep going. She stepped back onto the subway, got off, walked to her apartment, clawed her way up the stairs, unlocked her apartment and climbed gingerly into her bed. The entire time, she avoided sudden movements, as if she would break if she so much as breathed too deeply. She buried herself in a cocoon of silence, blankets, and ice, and shivered her way into restless dreams. He was in every one. But she kept trying to sleep. Maybe one day, she'd be able to close her eyes without seeing a tattoo of his face on the inside of her lids. Maybe. Maybe she'd just sleep until then.


	10. Chapter 10

She was like that for an entire week, drifting in and out of consciousness. When she wasn't tired anymore, she took cold medicine until she was. She had never used medicine in a way that was remotely inappropriate. He was changing her already, changing her into someone who felt things and misused cough medicine and gave a damn about what someone else thought of her. She tried to remember where she'd felt this way before, but fell back into her dream world just as the image of high school hallways and schoolgirl blushes began to take shape in her mind.

She checked her phone, finally, pathetically seeing only 8 missed messages… all from work. She sighed as her secretary's voice prattled over and over again "Are you okay?" "Of course I'm not okay," Bella thought, rolling her eyes, "If I were okay, I'd be at work." But she called her back, running her fingers through her unwashed hair and planning her first meal in a week.

As soon as she heard Bella's voice, Bree (that was her name, although Bella quite routinely forgot it) sighed in relief. She had been checking hospitals and dealing with Riley, the asshole owner of Lyrical Beauty, for the past week. "I will be back in this afternoon, Bree. Please have my coffee ready and a spreadsheet of calls I've missed."

Bree answered immediately "Of course Miss Swan, glad to hear from you." Bella didn't pick up on the sarcasm. She never did. Bella Swan, in Bree's opinion, was quite the ice queen.

After Bella's shower, she slipped on a pencil skirt and a midnight blue shirt, blowing her hair dry until it fell in soft waves down her back. She looked in the mirror to put makeup on her pale skin and started, jumping back a few feet and getting waterproof mascara under her eye. She swore, wiping it off before it set and looking back in the mirror. The eyes that had stared back at her as if they were dead for seven years were different. They looked young and naïve, dancing and sparkling as if she were laughing, though her lips were in a tight line. The eyes that she had suppressed to brown were glowing orange and yellow and gold, even as they filled with tears. He was changing her again and she hated that she was his to change, his to mold into the shape he liked best. She didn't want to, or at least shouldn't want to, be his in any respect. He had had enough power to almost kill her once and had used it, painfully. She couldn't give him that chance again. She couldn't survive another death like that.

Suddenly having no appetite, despite her weeklong fast, she grabbed her briefcase and a leather jacket to ward off the cool spring breeze and walked the entire way to work, not stopping to get on a subway. When she finally walked in, she was almost lightheaded enough to have forgotten him. Almost. Bree handed her the coffee and spreadsheet and Bella walked into her office. But it was entirely unrecognizable.

Flowers covered every inch of the space. Calla Lilies to be exact. Her favorite. She picked up the nearest card

" Then I defy you, stars!"

Then the next

"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it."

And another

"Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity or registering wrongs."

And another

"They played at hearts as other children might play at ball; only, as it was really their two hearts that they flung to and fro, they had to be very, very handy to catch them, each time, without hurting them."

And another

"Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure"

And another

"A wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand. I think, I too, have known autumn too long."

And finally

"I read all your favorites over and over again, simply because I could almost hear your voice in my head, reading them to me."

Bella sat down, reading the quotes from Romeo and Juliet, Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, The Phantom of the Opera, Pride and Prejudice, ee cummings's poetry, and Edward Cullen's mind over and over again.

She kept waiting for a line to shift into music notes, because that's what she was used to with Edward, always his feelings being spelled out in rests and eighth notes. But here, these were words. Some of them were even his own. He was speaking her language now. He was in her world. She hadn't invited him, hadn't told him it was alright. But he was there all the same. And now, she had barely any choice. At some point in time, she would have to listen. She would avoid it for as long as she could, but if she still knew him, he would make her listen sooner than she would want. But it wouldn't be too soon. He knew her better than that. If Edward Cullen knew anything about rhythm and poetry and music and Bella Swan, the timing would be perfect.

"Bree?" she called out. Her assistant came running to the door. "Don't let Anthony Edwards come into my office, don't accept his calls, and don't sign for any more gifts or flowers." She was going to make this as hard as possible.

"Miss Swan?" Bree stuttered.

"Yes?" Bella replied, raising an eyebrow.

"The last part I can do, but I feel like you're going to have to accept his calls and see him."

"And why would that be?"

"Riley said that since you're our best lyricist, and he's the best musician we've had here in a long time, you're going to be working on a compilation. Anthony wouldn't accept anyone else but you and we need to keep him as a client."

"Shit." There it was. She hadn't even declared war yet and he was fighting, forcing her to quote her seventeen-year-old self. She choked on her gasp of recognition, of the way he was forcing her warmth to the surface already and she was melting, melting. The worst part was the piece of her that was on his side, that wanted to melt. That wanted him. Shit was right. She was screwed.


	11. Chapter 11

She finished the day, clearing the flowers off her desk, ripping each note into small pieces very, very slowly, as if she were torturing the heavy, expensive parchment. What kind of 22-year-old kid, fresh out of school could afford flowers and paper like this, anyway? What kind of confusion was this Anthony Edwards anyway? And what had he done with her Edward?

She sighed, sitting down at her desk and opening her emails. Most were in all caps, irate WHERE ARE YOUs from Riley. She deleted all but one, and replied to that "Sorry. I was very sick." The remaining five were from an unknown contact: . Of course it was Edward. Or Anthony. Ugh, whoever. The emails all begged her forgiveness, telling her that he needed her lyrics for a song of his and that he didn't mean for their first meeting to happen like that… the emails went on and on. She youtubed a few of his songs while reading. If someone were to ask her, she would have said it was just research. But she honestly needed to hear his voice in some way. She listened anxiously to a full song before she realized that it had no lyrics. It was an excruciatingly beautiful piano piece. With no words.

Decidedly, she emailed him back:

"Mr. Edwards:

I am sorry for my lack of professionalism the other day. I have been sick, but there really was no excuse. Please refrain from sending me flowers; I have an allergy to pollen. I am back at the office now so any day this week, you can send me a recording of the song and a copy of the sheet music. I will also need to know the answers to a few questions which you can answer by email: Why do you want lyrics for this song, as a pianist and composer? What do you want the song to be about? What does the song mean to you? Thank you, and have a nice day.

Bella Swan, Lyricist"

She laughed to herself. She was in no way allergic to pollen and that email was infinitely more artificial and professional than any she had sent to previous clients. But she knew Edward, or she had at one point, and she knew that he was relentless when he wanted something. She would have to do everything in her power to slow him down.

She wanted him. Of course she wanted him. He was beautiful and intelligent and thousands of other excellent adjectives. But she knew that to have him would be to lose her own self, or at least the version of herself she had worked so hard to create. He was already bashing the skull of her paper-mâché covering in, digging through to the soft, naked part of her she had concealed for the vast majority of her life. She knew she would have to postpone it as long as possible, and if she could, prevent it. Because once he was in, he would know the limitless expanse of his power over her and use it once again. He would ruin her so beautifully that she would only cry for more, pathetically.

After thinking logically about this situation for an hour or so, she closed up shop for the day, waving goodbye to Bree after writing another soulless song for another Britney Spears lookalike with no real talent. It took her ten minutes, no challenge or thoughtfulness at all, but she knew everyone would be pleased with it. This was how her life worked. She dealt with easy emotions in simple songs for the world to hear, then went home to work on her life's meaning on reams of paper she feared no one would ever read.

Just as she walked out of the door, she ran into a warm chest and gentle hands, which trapped her soft body. She knew who it was immediately, felt the chest's heartbeat skip the way his always had, to his youthful chagrin. She could smell mint ice cream and gasoline and felt tears try to escape her eyes. For a moment, they were both in high school again and she knew without a doubt what color her eyes would be when she looked up. She lingered in his arms a beat too long, playing with the rhythm that had always followed them, dogging their steps until they beat a tattoo when combined with heartbeats and the way they breathed around each other, like there was never enough air. She felt him suck in a breath and couldn't resist nuzzling her smile into him. Then, she composed her face and organized her manner. She stepped back from him, said a distracted-sounding "Oh hello, Anthony" and walked away. He stood, shocked, and then dashed after her. "It's Edward to you, Bella. It always has been and always will be."

She rolled her eyes, not conceding defeat on that front. He walked in step with her, hands in his pockets to avoid touching her, though they clenched in fists. "I got your email, Bella. You and I both know you are not allergic to pollen. You got bouquets of flowers after the school musical. But I will not send you flowers again until you want them."

"And if I never want to receive flowers from you?"

He grinned cockily, "You will."

They arrived at her subway station and she said, in her professional, respectful, bland business voice, that she was excited to receive his recording of the piece and the sheet music, as well as the answer to her questions.

"I won't work with your email and answering machine. I signed a contract that stated I would be working with you, not electronics. So I made an appointment with your secretary for tomorrow. You're mine from eleven to four." With that, he grinned and walked away, the way he always did in high school. Edward had always gotten the last word.

Remembering the musical, she mumbled under her breath that he was bad at entrances – always a beat too late, but he always did know how to make an exit.

Her mind went into teenage overdrive, her logic and reason racing after him and leaving her flustered and youthful. She was thinking that he had never looked so good. She was wondering where he had been all of these years. She was hoping that she had been correct in thinking she had caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his forearm. She was contemplating the status of his family. She was thinking that she was his forever, but she was not ready to admit that. Not even to herself in silence. But, as it had always been with Edward, she was rebelling against her very self, fighting to think about him and force him from her brain all at once, begging her heart to just give up already we're supposed to be adults here and craving mint chocolate chip ice cream in a gas-station parking lot.

But that night, she could not prevent herself from sitting for an hour or two in her room, just making shapes out of the light that had jumped from streetlight to tree to her wall and thinking about the shallow filtered quality of everything in her life but him.


	12. Chapter 12

Edward didn't sleep as peacefully as Bella that night. This time around, it was Edward with his eyes held open and his pride under her feet. In high school, it had seemed so hard to wait around for their secrecy and eye contact to combust into a conflagration of epic proportions, but it had been Bella who waited for him to stop fighting the truth. He knew now that she was stronger than anyone gave her credit for – that she was stronger than he would ever be. Sometimes, he worried he would never be able to resemble her kind of stumbling perfection

The next morning, when Bella was just waking up, slowly and sensually with a cat-like stretch and a lazy smile, Edward had been awake for hours and hours. He couldn't remain asleep, not when every dream he had framed her face in a crystal haze of dream-knowing. In his dreams, he knew her like he had in high school, when they had depended completely on nonverbal communication. He had known when the blush on her face was a rush of lust or embarrassment, had known when her smile was for him, even when it was directed towards other people. Now, he couldn't read her crimsonandcloverhoney eyes any more than he could read her ebonyandivoryheart. Their rhythm had once coordinated with the beating of his heart and sometimes when he looked across the hallway, their feet had shuffled in unison. Their voices had twined together, blended, so that it was only them singing, despite the rest of the choir's pathetic background mumblings.

"What had it been?" he wondered while the birds started their morning rambling, sweet but meaningless in the cool early-morning fog of New York City, where no one but the unemployed bothered to listen. Sure, they had both had an air of tortured mystery, of artistry and espresso and urban landscapes, but something more had to have tied them to one another. Because even now, despite the fact that she didn't seem to care nearly as much as he couldn't stop caring, he felt their bond. She held him to the planet, not gravity. Her and her heat. She was his sun and his moon and his stars and his earth – his everything. And seven years after he had left, he knew more than ever that he hadn't imagined it. She made him feel less cold, less dead, less like the predetermined puppet he had been told all his life that he was.

Bella stopped stretching, her face still transformed by her smile. She didn't know it, couldn't see it from the wrought-iron-and-gold cave of her bed, but she hadn't used that particular smile for seven years. Her legs swung over the side and she bent, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands. She knew she should be preparing mentally for the meeting with Edward. They were teetering on another precipice and something had to be decided. It would happen during the meeting. She was eerily calm, done pretending she didn't care. She would decide whether she was going to give up on Edward or love him forever. As she brushed her long hair, she realized she still had no idea which it would be. And that was okay with her. It all depended on what he had to say. She was an adult, not the same longing teenager who would write him poetry and give him her heart in front of the world and then wait desperately for some token of feeling. She couldn't live off of secret glances and smiles or the way he played piano like it was meant for her.

She was done writing lyrics for him to sing. It was his turn to play her heart with his long fingers and make her reveal their melody.


	13. Chapter 13

It was with that confidence that Bella walked into her favorite café. It was with that confidence that she began to take long, slow strides towards Edward, who was sitting at her normal booth with his black coffee and what she would bet was a caramel macchiato, her favorite drink, in front of him. She would have continued, but her favorite waitress – a young woman named Leslie – stepped into her path.

"Bella! You never come in this late! You should have texted me. That hottie over there took your table."

"He didn't tell you he was meeting me?"

"Oh, of course. That's why he ordered your drink and sat at your table. He must know you. Silly me."

She hadn't told him what her favorite drink was. She hadn't told him where her table was.

That was when the world started spinning. She had thought she had the upper hand, that he was invested in their relationship more than she was. She had thought she was holding the winning hand and he was all in. But with the knowledge that he still knew her the way he did, though they had had maybe two complete conversations their entire lives, she stumbled.

She began to fall, began to fly, began to run. She didn't stop until she had landed in his arms. Leslie would have said she fell, but very very very gracefully, like a piece of paper laden with inked passion and music notes. The old man who was sitting next to them would have said she flew like a drunken sparrow, all crooked lines and reaching limbs and hopeless hope. Edward saw only her legs lengthening into the tripping skipping smooth strides that meant she was running to him only him and he knew somehow that this would be the story they would tell their grandchildren someday – not his stupid fumblings in high school or her burning-eyed youthful lust or the flowers he sent and the tears she had cried. No, their story would simply be this: her sprinting across a café in New York City in five inch heels, unafraid of falling, because he would always always catch her.

When he began to let go, she let out a tiny whimper, so quiet he could only feel the smallest vibration against his chest. But he knew because he felt the same way, so he sat down at the table, a 6'2" man in a black t-shirt and combat boots and a leather jacket lying next to him in the booth, with a 5'4" skin-and-bones woman in designer high heels sniffling into his shoulder, her legs tossed carelessly over his knees. Seeing they were making a scene (Edward the alwaysselfconscious, Edward the onewhoreadsothers, Edward the boywhoonlyfellblindlyonce), Edward left a handful of cash on the table, lifted Bella until he was cradling her like a baby or a bride, and left the café (Leslie glaring at him through narrowed worry-eyes like a mama bear with a chip on her shoulder).

Leslie quickly pulled her emergency-only-but-whatever-her-husband-could-deal-because-this-was-sooooo-an-emergency cell phone from the oversized pocket of her ugly maroon apron and speed-dialed Bree (because they were both Italian and somehow related in a her-great-grandparents-probably-were-neighbors-to-Leslie's-drunkard-of-a-great-aunt-twice-removed and knew each other from family reunions).

"I knew it! Your ice-queen boss-lady DID have a man. Oh dear god he was fine, too. You know, the brooding romantic James Dean vampire movie type."

"Really? And how do you know this?"

"He was here when she came in. She started bawling and literally ran across the café in her blue Manolos."

"Gahhhhhhhh! No pics?"

"I was too shocked to pull my phone out in time, sweetheart. But I will get you proof next time, pinky swear."

Bree began to respond, but was interrupted by Leslie "Oh sorry gotta go. Billy's here."

"That creepy old guy who always buys all your leftover sugar packets?"

"That's the one. I'll call you back when he's done doing the running man on top of the counter. It's been a long morning. I need this."

"Gotcha. Byeeee!"

With that, one more layer of Bella Swan's ice-armor was chipped away. She didn't know it, but several blocks away, she smiled and squeezed Edward's hand. It was a girlish gesture, without artifice or premeditation, and it was the final push off the precipice Edward had teetered on for years. Suddenly, without any warning at all, Edward knew three things. First, Bella was otherworldly – an angel or a demon or something his mind made up years and years ago. Second, there was a part of her that delighted in the fact that she could break him at any time, could make him die or live for her with a squeeze of a hand or a smile. And third, he was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with her.


	14. Chapter 14

They approach Bella's door, and she unlocks it. Her hands do not shake. This is right, this is right. They walk to her bedroom and slowly climb into her bed. There will be no talking tonight. They curve toward each other, faces inches apart, and just LOOK. Memorize. They slowly relax and fall into sleep, exhausted. She hears him promise, just before, when she is too close to sleep to respond, "I'll be here tomorrow." She smiles.

Suddenly, they are awake and she is in his arms, pressed against his chest. And he has to pee, but cannot, not with her body in hand. He fears he will come back and realize that she was just a dream. And her wants to tell her that. He wants to tell her everything , that the sky is blue and the grass is green, her eyes are both dark and light at the same time and so, so warm – the heat turning his fingertips red with the need to touch her.

She can feel his heart pounding in the space just inside her head. And she should know that it is because his heart is pulsing inside the cavity of his chest, against her skull, but what she does know is that when (if. She should not think "if" first. But she does) she pulls away, it will remain there, in her head, his blood dancing just a foot or two above her heart and closing. "Sh-sh," she whispers into his chest, turning lazily until she is mostly on top of him, her softness forming to the rough edges of chiseled jaw lines and muscle. She stretches like a cat, relishing in the feel of his body under hers. She drags her body along his to kiss his nose, and he groans, unable to hold back the erection pressing firmly against her belly. Her eyes widen, and she retreats quickly, realizing suddenly that nothing is set in stone; she does not know his story. She only knows him. But Edward does not let her run. He raises himself to his knees, hands raised as if he is being held at gunpoint and slowly moves toward her.

"Bella," he breathes, and her pulse races as his word skitters down her spine, "I would never, ever push you into anything. I… I love you." He says it with such stuttering confidence, like he is nervous to say it out loud, but has known it for a long, long time – and she leaps into his arms, kissing his cheeks, his eyelids, his nose, the slope of his jaw, and finally, his lips. He holds her face to his then, such tenderness burning through his hands that her face burns red. "I love you too," she whispers with her face tucked into the crook of his neck. He feels it rather than hears it, her pillow-petal lips tripping against his neck, the fuzziness of vibrating tones in the air, rushing like grains of sugar over his skin. He shivers and pulls her closer, so close that he forgets, for a moment, that there are two of them.

Finally, he has to pull away. "Bella, can I use your bathroom?" he asks sheepishly and she giggles, trying in vain to smother the sound by biting her lip. "I'll be in the kitchen," she calls on her way out of the room. She gets into the kitchen fine, but cannot resist. Squealing under her breath, she bounces wildly, until she hears a chuckle. Edward is leaning against the doorway. She blushes, clasping her hands over her mouth and tensing every muscle in embarrassment "Don't stop on my account, love," he says as he saunters over to her, wrapping his arms around her. She groans into the front of his cotton t-shirt "so…embarrassing…stupid," he hears her mumbling into the fabric. "Hey, hey," he holds her at arm's-length. "Would it make you feel better if I told you I just did the same exact thing in the bathroom?" he grins, and then adds, quickly "Only manlier. Much manlier."

Giddy, they laugh. They look at each other, and no one has ever, ever been quite this happy.


	15. Chapter 15

Later, Bella sat in her living room, aimlessly watching television. She sighed and mumbled under her breath, remembering that Fairly Oddparents episode in which someone said "In the future, there will be a thousand channels… and NOTHING to watch!" She giggled. "I guess it's the future." She finally got up from the couch, far too excited to sit still. Instead, she put her headphones in and started bouncing around.

Bella could dance, but she hadn't, not for awhile. The pulsing lights of clubs, the darkness and heat of writhing bodies never warmed her ice-and-stone. Nothing in pounding, wordless music could reach her. And, really, she had no friends that she wanted to go out with. There was no sense of need that followed her friendships – no need to talk or be with them. When they were there, they were there. When they were not, they were not. None of them would ever know her well enough to know a fake smile from a real.

Bella used to dance for fun, in high school dances and with her friends. And sometimes, spontaneously, in the bathroom on those rare days she liked what she saw in the mirror, or in her bedroom when her parents weren't home, twirling and swiveling her hips, shaking her hair around.

She used to sing as well, her high, sweet voice crooning through her vocal chords and out of those mismatched lips of hers. She used to imaging that the sound could be seen as well as heard and, sometimes, swore she could see them in tones of blue and orange, cold and warm. Her music was as real, as solid as her writing. But it had seemed strange to sing without a harmony, strange to wait for a voice that would not join hers in complementary tones.

It had been years and years, seven, to be exact, since she had sung or danced. Bella was just starting to realize that Edward was the music in her life. It sounded corny, but she couldn't deny the feel of waiting, always waiting for his piano or his voice, his awkwardly darting arms, to catch her. She was left wondering why she continued to expect him to dance with her when she had never danced with him. The only explanation she could imagine was that Edward wasn't the other dancer. Edward was the music itself.

He was the reason for twisting and turning, for moving and for opening her mouth. He was the reason it meant anything.

So when she started dancing, it felt like a miracle. It felt like breathing again, like the fire in her eyes had traveled to her limbs and her belly. Every inch of her skin tingled and filled with color. She was no longer pale, placid Bella. She was Bella, the girl who was on fire. She was Bella, the woman who felt so much, too much, until she was bleeding from her pores.

It was Florence and the Machine's Drumming Song and the beat set her toes tapping and her arms over her head, entangled in strange ways. The song _felt_ like Edward, all quickening heartbeats and rhythm. She turned it up and up until all she could hear or feel was him, traveling into her ears and through her bloodstream. If he was the music and the music was inside her, was he inside her? The thought did not unleash her usual blush. It unleashed her fire.

The song ended with her back arched, head thrown back, toes pointed, arms reaching into the air. She waited there, hoping to continue the burn with the next song. Instead she was met with cool blue suspension, dunked in ice cold water so clear it was almost white. It was the song that Edward had played, back when she was swaddled in the scratchy wool of youthful hope. It was her song, angry and so, so, so in love. It was plush petals and pigtails and clawing corpses and cold. Her arms gracefully fell around her body, wrapping it in a layer of protection as she rocked back on her feet – grounded. Then, she reached out a pointed toe, as if groping for another body, spinning slowly, mournfully. She ended, finally on the ground, wracked with sobs. With Edward back, there was no protection, no blissful wall separating her from the music. She reached desperately for her iPod, hoping to stop the pain.

Edward must have gotten to it at some point in the night. It was titled: "Our song, the song we will write."

That was the last thing that Bella saw before she fainted.


End file.
